


Sentimental Fools

by Munchy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry if he's bit ooc, I... continue to not know how to write Jack, Injured McCree, Jack "Self Loathing Bastard" Morrison, M/M, Mc76 Secret Santa, More Hurt Than Comfort, Secret Santa, Unresolved Emotional Tension, sorta - Freeform, wump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munchy/pseuds/Munchy
Summary: Jack nods his head towards the door she emerged from not moments before, “Came to check on the kid— McCree,” he lets slip, falling into a familiar pattern he just couldn’t let go. He berates himself internally, telling himself that now wasn’t the time for any nostalgic sentiment. He was only here to… to—Why was he even here if not for the fact that he was a sentimental fool?





	Sentimental Fools

**Author's Note:**

> For Backto88mph for the Mc76 Secret Santa event! I hope you like it~ Sorry if it turned out to be a little more hurt than comfort...
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone!

He watches Angela exit the med bay, her hands steady but her face hangs with exhaustion. When she turns to walk to her office, she startles at seeing his visor’s red glare in the dark shadows of the hall.

 

“Dr. Zeigler.” He greets.

 

Angela sighs, “76,” her voice tight, professional, “What brings you here at this time of night?” she’s phrasing it as a question, but he knows better. Angela never liked unexpected visitors running around her med bays, disturbing her patients.

 

Jack nods his head towards the door she emerged from not moments before, “Came to check on the kid— _McCree_ ,” he lets slip, falling into a familiar pattern he just couldn’t let go. He berates himself internally, telling himself that now wasn’t the time for any nostalgic sentiment. He was only here to… to—

 

Why was he even here if not for the fact that he was a sentimental fool?

 

If Angela noticed the slip of tongue, however, she didn’t acknowledge it. She sighs instead, something exasperated and on the edge of annoyance, “I see. I suppose that’s good to hear considering he was the one that _saved your life_.” she levels him with a glare. It’s familiar to Jack. Bright blue eyes that hold fiery anger on the behalf of the people she cared for because either they couldn’t or, for some reason or another, refused to.

 

Jack understands that. Has been leveled that same look countless times in this exact situation. And yet, time and time again, he finds that he can’t learn from his lessons, can’t stop McCree from thinking his life is worth less than the people around him. If anything, Jack’s life was worth _far less_ than Jesse’s, always has been. He deserved so much better. Better than Jack Morrison’s ghost hanging around him, looking for something that no longer should exist.

 

Though his mind was a whirlwind of dark thoughts, outwardly, his body’s only reaction is for his jaw to tense and his hands to clench into fists. Angela notices and raises a brow, eyeing him critically. Jack clears his throat, “I wanted to see if he was doing any better.”

 

Angela huffs, clearly irritated by 76’s late night presence, “The wounds are healing nicely,” she says, “But his fever hasn’t gone down. I’m monitoring him closely, but there isn’t much I can do outside of giving him some pain relievers. Luckily they’ve finally put him to sleep.” A hint of relief is present on her voice, eyes staring at a memory over Jack’s shoulder.

 

It’s gone in an instant as her eyes snap back to his visor, “But you know, you can go see for yourself if you’re that concerned.” Something in her voice, sharp as a razor yet undeniably _knowing_. It startles him into thinking she knows the identity of the dead man behind the mask. Like she had stripped him bare and now clutches at his throat, ready to ruin him for all his continued failures.

 

“I—” he hesitates.

 

Angela steps aside, having grown tired of the conversation, and quietly opens the door. The sounds of soft beeping emerging from the room beyond. Jack stands there, like a coward, as she walks away, the clicking of her heels matching the beat of Jesse’s heart.

 

He continues to hesitate, body tense as he catches a glimpse of the tiny bed McCree was placed in. A lump under a white, knitted blanket is all that he can see, but the rhythmic melody of the machines lets Jack know that Jesse’s breathing.

 

That he’s alive.

 

Jack takes a step forward, then another. He gently pushes the door open, before closing it softly behind him. The room is a dim wash of light, just enough to navigate it without disturbing the occupant from sleeping. Even threw his visor, he can smell how strong the antiseptic is. It brings him into an unwanted memory, one filled with panic and stuttering lungs.

 

He catches the sight of Jesse, wrapped up in a pile of blankets in an attempt to sweat out the fever the old-fashioned way. He’s pale and clammy, brow and eyelids twitching. Far too restless for him. His metal arm is nowhere to be seen, so Jack is left to stare at the smatter of scar tissue instead. It leaves him with a hollow feeling knowing that the last time he had seen the man before he ran off, Jesse still had flesh and bone there. The most startling contrast, however, is the large bandages covering his torso. Pristine and white, they wrap around and around disappearing under the mass of blankets at the middle of his chest.

 

There are spots of red, just under the surface of the topmost threads.

 

Jack sighs, not from relief but to combat the constriction in his throat. He steps forwards again, his boots making a distinct tapping noise.

 

Jesse stirs, gasps in his sleep. The sound wet and painful in a way that he never should have been. It’s the sound of a man suffering.

 

Jack suddenly can’t breathe, body going far too tense. He reaches for his mask, claws at it until he pries it off and throws across the room with a clatter that shatters the remaining shield he has. His mind fills with dreadful thoughts about Jesse, about himself. How Jesse doesn’t deserve this. That Jack isn’t worth another life let alone Jesse’s. He _needs_ to leave, not just the room but the base itself. Leave before anyone notices, before he causes more problems, more pain, more death. _God_ , what was he thinking coming back into everyone’s lives like this? Ana was wrong. Even if he’s completely changed his identity, even if he says he’s nothing but a soldier, he’s still Jack Morrison. The man that ruined so many lives in the wake of his continued failures. He’s still ruining the lives of the people closest to him.

 

He finds the brittle strength to turn around but stops as a weak voice protests.

 

“Jack?” It’s quiet, almost slurred. Jack’s sure if his gloves were gone, his nails would have bit into his palms by now. Ana was going to kill him for blowing his cover so easily. He turns his head slightly, feels the blood leaving his face.

 

Jesse’s staring at him. Squinting really, like he’s looking through a fog. He’s still pale, sweaty, and weak, yet he still manages to lift himself up a little. He makes a grimace as he does so and, against his better judgement Jack is by his side instantly, hand going to his shoulder.

 

“Easy kid,” Jack says with far more control than he thought he had.

 

Jesse yields and lays back down, a testament to how bad his condition is. He looks up at Jack under long lashes and smiles at him, of all things. His eyes are glazed over, Jack notices, with pupils blown wide. The medicine Angela gave him must still be in effect.

 

“How’d you’d get Reyes to let you in?” Jesse all but slurs. Jack blinks for a moment, lets the sudden sharpness of that name cut into his heart before taking a shaky breath and ducking his head. Jesse’s on some kind of morphine cocktail, Jack’s sure. The man hasn’t said a word about Reyes at all, and whenever the phantom is brought up, McCree’s features grow dark.

 

“I’m his boss,” Jack says after a beat, playing along for now. He might not have blown his cover after all with how doped up McCree is.

 

“Hey—” Jesse begins, trying to get the other’s attention. There’s a pregnant pause that Jack doesn’t immediately notice until he realizes the weight that brushed his arm was Jesse’s own arm. Or what was left of it.

 

“Shit…” Jack whispers as he looks up. To his surprise, Jesse doesn’t look all that fazed by having a stump instead of an arm. In fact, he’s inspecting it with a childlike curiosity.

 

“I don’t… remember this happening.” He says slowly. Jack watches him in abject horror as the man pokes at the scarred flesh, then continues into the air above the stump. “Why’s it still hurtin’ though?” he looks at Jack then, brows knit in question.

 

Jack’s lungs stutter. He doesn’t have the answer to that. He doesn’t think he ever will. He just knows that Jesse lost it after he left Blackwatch. After Jack fucked up one too many times for Jesse to think it was safe to stick around, and ended up losing his _fucking arm_ over it. He grits his teeth and sighs through his nose.

 

“Hey,” he hears Jesse say. He feels fingers on his face — when did he close his eyes? — Uncoordinated yet gentle as they stroke a familiar path. “When did this happen?”

 

Jack opens his eyes to McCree concentrating on following the lines of his scars. He remains silent, however, letting Jesse stroke them with far more care than Jack thinks he deserves. Gun calloused fingers reach his lips and pause there, the lingering warmth almost too much to handle, like Jesse’s burning Jack for his sins.

 

Suddenly Jesse begins to squirm as he tries to get up again. Jack puts a stop to it, but Jesse continues to struggle.

 

“Wana kiss it,” Jesse suddenly mumbles, “Please? It looks like it hurts.”

 

 _Far more than you think_ , Jack thinks bitterly. Instead, he says, “Don’t be ridiculous Jess.” Letting the pet name slip out. “You need to rest.”

 

“You look like you’re in more pain.” Jesse levels him with an honest stare. Jack nearly crumbles from it.

 

Even when McCree’s the one in the sickbay, shotgun wound to the chest earlier because of Jack’s own carelessness, he’s still more worried about Jack’s wellbeing than his own.

 

How did Jack ever deserve this? This kind of love? He must have been worthy of it at one point, must have done something good for Jesse to have cared this much at one point in time. But the more he tries to ponder the answer, the more he comes up empty-handed.

 

Jesse shutters suddenly, the fever going through him in waves. His eyes lose focus for a moment before refocusing back on him again, looking more tired and sick than before. The blood just under the surface of the stark white bandages is starting to peek through. Jesse’s struggles not helping the stitches underneath.

 

Jack’s heart bleeds at the sight, and before he can think better of it, he leans down and kisses Jesse’s forehead. Shushes and coos as Jesse shake through the worst of it. Presses close and laces their fingers together. He hasn’t been this affectionate in a long damn time, but damn if Jesse doesn’t deserve it.

 

“I wish you didn’t waste your time on an old fool like me, Jess,” he finds himself suddenly saying, “Should’ve found someone else. Someone better.”

 

“I-I didn’t want anyone else,” he hears Jesse say, voice trembling, “I jus… just wanted an old fool like you.” Despite the inner turmoil, the guilt, and the self-loathing, Jack smiles at that.

 

After about an hour of Jack coaxing Jesse back to sleep, he retrieves his mask from across the room. The visor itself was cracked, though Jack isn’t surprised. It’ll take some time to repair it and Ana will have a fit — or her version of a fit, which is to say she’ll give him an exasperated look and walk away—, but there’s nothing that can be done about it. He’ll have to live with it for a while. He looks back at Jesse’s sleeping form before clicking it back into place and making his way back out into the hall.

 

(Later, after Jesse’s recovers and as the weeks go by, Jack will catch him look his way. Brown eyes lingering longer than they should, with a curious look and pinched brows, like he’s having a sudden sense of _Déjà vu_. And when their eyes meet, Jesse will look away quickly, with a frown on his face and his hand rubbing his forehead, lingering there like he can feel the ghost of something warm and familiar.

 

He’ll pull Angela aside one day, in front of the storage closet that Jack is held up in as he repairs his visor. He’ll ask about the drugs she put him on while he was out sick. Tells her about the dream he had with a quiet tremble in his voice, whispers Jack’s name like a prayer.

 

“He had these scars, across his face and I… God, Ange, they felt so _real_.” And Jack will pause before continuing to repair the crack in his visor at a much faster pace.)


End file.
